History of Horses in the year 1341

Welcome, dear fellow equines and friends of the horse! I'm Emma, a grey mare with a snow-white mane and tail, and I'm delighted you've found my corner of Equiworld. Here, I chronicle our magnificent lineage and share insights from my life on the windswept hills of Hayfield, near Aberdeen in Scotland. Today, we travel back to the year 1341, a time of hardship and hope, and see what was going on in the equine world then.

In 1341, I was a young filly, just coming into my prime. My days were filled with hard work, hauling goods and helping farmers with the yearly tasks. You see, back then, horses weren't the majestic show animals they are today; we were the backbone of the economy.

We were crucial for transport, carrying food, materials, and even people from one place to another. We pulled plows in the fields, turned heavy stone wheels to grind grain, and were the workhorses of the blacksmiths, hauling their anvils and bellows. My strength was vital, and I was proud to play my part.

But let's be honest, it wasn't always a bed of roses. Life for a horse in 1341 wasn't easy. Winter brought blizzards and ice, forcing us to dig for whatever meager vegetation we could find. Summers, while long and sunny, were harsh on our hooves, with constant work on rocky, dry paths. And our rations? Oh dear, not quite the luxury they offer now! Often, we were fed just barley or hay with a handful of oats if we were lucky.

Yet, I can't help but admire the bond that developed between horse and human in those days. They relied on us just as much as we relied on them. A tap on the flank, a gentle word of encouragement, a pat on the neck, were our currency. The knowledge that our work mattered, helped us push through the hardships.

Even as we laboured and toiled, whispers of a terrible war were in the air. You see, Scotland was still at war with England over the right to be ruled independently. Every time the English king, Edward III, made another attempt to take over, my home country stood its ground, valiantly fighting for their right to freedom. It was an age of valor, bravery, and determination, but it came at a cost.

These conflicts took a terrible toll, not just on human lives but also on equine ones. I learned from older horses of a time just before my own birth, a time called the War of Independence. There were stories of legendary chargers, called Destriers, great warhorses that carried knights into battle. But many perished in those wars.

My old grandfather, Old Tom, would sigh as he told the story of the legendary Sir William Wallace. His mount was said to have carried him across fields of battle, its hooves drumming a triumphant rhythm. He was, it was whispered, a great destrier that fought and loved as fiercely as his warrior companion. It's tragic to think about such courage and bravery lost. They were the real heroes, even if their stories were sometimes forgotten.

The whispers in 1341 suggested another conflict was on the horizon, and while I was thankful for the peace that allowed me to live my simple life of work, I felt a deep sorrow for those who had gone before. Their losses reminded us of the dangers lurking beyond our hills, reminding us of the human nature for war, and of the noble sacrifices horses made, willing to fight side-by-side with their human companions.

Yet even with the war looming, life wasn't all hard work and sorrow. Every few months, there were festivals and tournaments, a beautiful display of skill, power, and camaraderie. They would be held in bustling cities or small villages like Hayfield, the heart of the event a display of noble steeds performing amazing feats of athleticism.

It was at these festivals where I felt a sense of awe at the elegance of our equine brethren. We might be draught horses, sturdy and strong, but watching knights riding warhorses, or steeds galloping through a course in an exhibition of skill and agility, made my heart soar with pride and excitement. I remember watching the best horses, trained to perfection, leaping over fences, racing through obstacles, and displaying their athletic prowess to crowds of awestruck people.

Those festivals gave us, the working horses, a sense of purpose and a chance to see the finer side of equine life. It felt almost as if we were watching ourselves, only magnified, in those events, seeing the magnificence that resided within each horse.

They reminded us of the respect we deserved, for the skills that coursed through our blood. They spoke of the strength, loyalty, and bravery of all horses, the beauty and strength inherent in our bloodline, reminders of how important we were to the humans and to our own kind.

But beyond Hayfield, beyond the trials and joys of a life as a farmhorse, the world of horses continued to change in 1341. From my perch in the fields, I heard stories of the Arab world, where Arabian horses, bred for speed and stamina, were said to be magnificent, swift steeds used by Bedouin nomads in their travels across the vast, unforgiving desert. Their endurance, agility, and beauty were spoken of in hushed tones, making me long to see these legendary creatures.

Then there were tales from France, where they bred magnificent Norman steeds. Their grace and stature, used as both chargers and farmhorses, was described with envy and respect. I could almost feel their power and grandeur in the whispers, their presence a powerful reminder that we, horses, weren't confined to a single type but were diverse and resilient creatures, capable of so many things.

The world was vast and filled with wondrous possibilities, and through these stories, we learned that each equine had its own unique place and role, from the humble farmhand like me, to the legendary Arabian stallions, to the sleek, powerful Norman horses.

Though life as a draught horse in Hayfield was demanding and fulfilling, sometimes, in my dreams, I saw a world beyond fields and stables. I saw wild horses, those untouched, unbridled spirits of the moors, living life unchained, their manes flowing, galloping with abandon, free and untamed. Their independence resonated with my inner self. A yearning for wildness, a kinship with the untamed, a wild pulse, beat within my soul.

Yet I knew that such freedom, though enviable, was but a dream for me. The world was calling for my service. I was, in this era, a working horse, a part of a system that relied on us, that needed us.

It's in these quieter moments, while gazing out across the vast plains of Hayfield, that I marvel at the life we lead, a life that balances work and companionship, responsibility and loyalty.

I may be a mere grey mare, my story intertwined with the everyday life of a working horse in 1341. But it is our stories, the collective tale of every horse throughout the ages, that shape the legacy of our lineage. It is a legacy of strength, resilience, and compassion, woven into the very fabric of human history.

So here’s to all of you, my fellow equines, past and present. May your story inspire others to understand the vital role we've played, and the magnificent, unique spirit we embody.

Keep those hooves pounding, those manes flowing, and those hearts open, and remember, our story continues.

Yours in equinity,

Emma